


Bath Scrunchies and Other Sex Toys

by sian1359



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Fanart, Fantasizing, Introspection, M/M, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-18
Updated: 2007-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 03:37:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1803883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian1359/pseuds/sian1359
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney makes a new discovery upon his first return to Earth, and comes to a few conclusions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bath Scrunchies and Other Sex Toys

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in Season Two between episodes 1 & 2 (Seige 3 and Intruder)
> 
> Written for the 2007 Con*Strict Vegas Slash Con's annual zine: Constricted By Plot
> 
> There is a possibility I have been too influenced by a couple of authors when writing this story back in '07— no plagiarism was intended. I just agree that Target would be the store to shop for new supplies, and certain other things are universal in returning to Earth that first time. …

[](http://awit.com/AO3%20art%20files/image053.jpg.html)

Rodney remembers the first time he saw Major Sheppard holding one of those puffy bath things that both of Rodney's last two girlfriends always dutifully left hanging over their shower spigots, remembers that his most prodigious brain actually stuttered to a stop. Okay, all that muscle and tanned skin and serious, Bruce Reynolds level of hair being so openly displayed might have played a part in his brain's disconnect then, but Rodney had found himself focusing on the dark colored ball of mesh, and not just because focusing on anything else would lead to madness -- or to being punched.

His mind had predictably filled with all sorts of inappropriately cruel and juvenile taunts, which in any other circumstance he would have felt obligated to say (if only to maintain his reputation for not suffering idiots and fools). But Rodney had never been one to copy another's much more crude and witless derision -- especially ones of this nature, when just thinking them had made him fear for his life at those hands which now belonged to Atlantis' new military commander. Rodney had already been flashbacking on most of his secondary school days when he had to witness everyone else's bodies (and techniques) while showering. The locker rooms back then had been bad, had been worse than bad actually, and not just because he'd been terribly body conscious at fourteen, and fifteen, and, okay, he still was…

Although Rodney had intuitively picked up the physics behind hitting a puck with a stick, and had been able to evade an opponent or score almost every time he’d taken to the ice, he'd never had the conditioning and fitness to last even one period out on the hockey rink. Nor had he the coordination (or inclination), to even try to be mediocre in any of the other sports his school had offered. Ergo, he'd endured more than his fair share of vicious locker room teasing and name-calling all throughout his 'formative' years.

The times in the showers, however, god, those had been even worse than undressing in the locker room.

Because some of the name-calling hadn't been all that far from wrong.

_Yet how could anyone be at fault for having an appreciation for beautiful things, be they female or male?_

But there he'd been, trapped into looking -- into _noticing_ \-- once again. Ostensibly he's been protecting his temporarily vulnerable team member by keeping a look out over the surrounding countryside for any hint of a threat. What Rodney really wanted to keep his eyes on was said team member. On one Jonathan Sheppard, decorated Major in the United States Air Force and now serving detached duty as a member of the Atlantis expedition, as Major Sheppard took a quick opportunity to clean off two days worth of sweat, grime and mud in an emerald shaded pool under the jade-colored sunset of an alien world a whole galaxy away from Earth and locker rooms and awkward, hormonal adolescence. An _utterly_ naked major who happened to keep a bath thingy tucked into a bag that he'd been able to pull out without needing to search through the multitude of pockets adorning the bulky, remarkably heavy tac vests all gate teams were being forced to wear anytime they left Atlantis.

An utterly naked, walking-wet-dream of a major, whose bath thingy was producing an inordinate amount of suds from just a little squeeze of the bottle of liquid, anti-bacterial soap that all of them carried, Rodney had originally assumed, for cases of medical emergencies (like when having to hold in someone's intestines or clamp a hand over a squirting artery or something).

An utterly naked, walking-wet-dream (and now he could fill in the blanks Rodney had only before made up with his remarkably active imagination), John … Johnny? -- nah, definitely John, no Sheppard, dammit, who somewhat surprisingly wasn't looking all gay for playing with his special bath toy.

Except in comparing him to the best of Rodney's favorite porn

At that precise moment, Rodney had a instant of mourning for when he'd outgrown his fascination of bubbles and suds (circa age three). That had been soon after his mother had given him a bottle of soapy water and a stupid, useless plastic wand. He remembered her being so disappointed when his toddler self hadn't ooh and aah. Then how she'd gotten angry when a couple of days later she'd found them tossed into the garbage because Rodney had fashioned his own out of half of the detergent she kept under the sink using a prettily-painted, shallow bowl from her best china, several much sturdier paperclips and the steel mesh he'd torn out of one of her kitchen tools.

Bubbles had basically stayed off Rodney's radar after that, at least up until his first year at Uni. He used them to conduct comparison studies between crystal formation and biological cell growths, then froze their polyhedra patterning between two plates of glass as a form of art for the stupid humanities class he'd been forced to take (even if they had erroneously been calling it a physics course). Of course, the froth then had been dyed beer foam and not soap suds…

But, obviously, he'd been remiss in not further exploring the physics of bubbles by way of a puffy bath thing. And Rodney remembered grasping for the purity of those physics to try and counteract the incandescently indecent and downright dirty work of art he had no business wanting to worship.

First off, there was the overall larger surface area, given the whirls and fanning and how much material was actually bound up in the mesh ball as compared to a washcloth. A larger surface area that still hadn't cover up anywhere near the expanse of skin obviously molded for an aesthetic eye that a washcloth would have better hidden.

Then there was the mesh itself, with it's thousands upon thousand of holes, tiny, but still large enough to encourage a much greater air flow interacting with and breaking the tension of the soap film, and thereby creating a significantly greater number of bubbles from a lesser amount of soap. Yet one would have needed to include the density of chest hair, as well as its degree of softness, to properly calculate ratios and quantifying the results. And not just chest hair, but the dark strands all over a given body, and then consideration and comparisons would also have to be made on the flashes of skin that had little visible covering: the long glide of a tilted neck begging to be licked; the strong planes of the finally relaxing muscles across John's shoulders and back; the perfect curve of a definitely bitable ass --

_Fuck! Right, the physics of bath thingies._

When Major Sheppard had pulled that bag out of his vest, they'd already been stranded in the Pegasus Galaxy for three months, with no hope of returning to Earth unless Rodney somehow pulled a miracle from his ass (or a ZedPM). Even then there had been talk about gathering up fat renderings from the few goat-like things the Athosians now successfully were breeding on the mainland, and from the leftovers of the fish being caught off the South Pier. And gateteams had been searching for sources of lye alongside new food sources and ancient artifacts, for the time they would need to start making their own skin-searing cleansers in order to maintain some sort of level of civilization. Since the concept of soap seemed to be beyond most of the indigenous people Teyla had eagerly helped them meet.

Rodney distinctly remembered concluding that anything which could prolong the viability and supply of the good stuff was actually a pretty clever idea.

Except that bit of circular logic still hadn't explained why Sheppard, of all people, had had one of those things, when not even Rodney had gone into their expedition to another freaking galaxy really believing that they wouldn't be able to make their way back. Back then Rodney'd had no concept of what it would mean to run out of soap and catsup and all of the other essentials (why hadn't they found a civilization that grew coffee yet!), that made life worth living.

That a bath-thingy had been Sheppard's one personal item, even if Rodney hadn't already discovered Sheppard had brought a _hardback_ copy of War and Peace (" _It's been two months and you're only on page seventeen!" "I'm right on schedule."_ ), or that mind-boggling poster of Johnny Cash Sheppard had put up in his new living space even before he'd requisitioned himself some sheets and a pillow from the quartermaster, had actually made Rodney's head hurt. Because the alternative meant that the SGCm the American military and the entirety of the IOA's oversight committee -- that _Colonel Hard-Ass Freaking Sumner_ \-- had all approved Sheppard's puffy bath ball as a necessary component to his standard-issue equipment.

A bath ball approved as part of the expedition's allowances that no one had bothered mentioning to any of the scientists. Which was absolutely typical and an attitude that sometimes made Rodney not quite so sorry that Sumner had died, since out of all of the military present in Atlantis, John seemed to have the least of it.

While all of this had meant that _Rodney_ was supposed to have one of the bubble making balls, he hadn’t been about to ask Sheppard to share it. He'd considered asking if he could take it apart; it certainly wasn't like even _Kavanagh_ couldn't have put it back together and Rodney -- Well Rodney was only the one who'd figured out how to install the naquadah generators into Atlantis' power grid; how to interface their Earth-based computers and technology into Atlantis' mainframe, not to mention he'd been the one to figure out the workings of the puddle jumpers ( _still a stupid name_ ); the personal shield ( _why hadn't they found any more of them?_ ); and discovered the Wraith transmitter hidden within Teyla's necklace ( _surely she's forgiven him for going through her things by now… right?_ ). All Rodney had needed to do is measure the actual surface area and specifics of the mesh, find something equivalent, then gather up some thread and the right diameter of rope and give it to someone like Simpson -- no, Kusanagi -- to sew it together for him.

He hadn't gotten around to it though, due to time and other priorities. Due to the fact that they'd never found another civilization advanced enough to be able to synthesis basic polymers. Found no one other the Genii. And the people of Hoff, who managed to destroy half of their own population within days of meeting their team and Carson (and the Wraith had finished off the rest for the Hoffans even daring to try to come up with a way to make themselves unpalatable). As for the Genii; even if they hadn't attempted to take control of Atlantis or then subsequently tried to steal the Daganian ZedPM (when they couldn't even fucking use it), as they hadn't yet figured out that they needed shielding to survive their primitive and crude nuclear program, Rodney doubted they were spending time on even making tooth brushes that lasted more than day, much less some sort of polymer mesh.

So, no surplus nylon for that first year, and also no _real_ soap after the second month on Atlantis anyway; Carson having needed to confiscate all that had been brought from Earth for his infirmary. Because not only the military -- and their sometimes, maybe, suicidal commander -- had a bad habit of ending up in said infirmary with broken bones or gunshots, or gunshots _and_ teethmarks along with every other sort of crazy types of injury never before imagined by man (or even bad science fiction writers), and thank god their sheep-herding practitioner of voodoo had a thing about sterilizing hands and other body parts before operating.

It wasn't until they'd finally been able to make contact back with Earth (thanks to Rodney's utter brilliance yet once more), then been rescued at the last minute in the freakiest Hail Mary moment to top all Hail Mary moments (thereby proving that Sheppard's stupid Boston College vs. Miami video maybe had been the perfect metaphor for the expedition and worth O'Neill's approval, but John still should have tried asking instead for more coffee and chocolate, or a 500GB drive of porn and science fiction -- where he could have also managed to add a digital copy of the fucking game), and finally invited (forced, actually, despite Rodney having weeks and maybe even months of work to do in trying to repair even half of the damage the Wraith had wrought during the siege), to gate back to Earth now that they had a ZedPM ( _All Hail Dr. Fucking Jackson_ ), that Rodney had had a chance to think about what he might want to bring back. Not surprisingly, bath thingies ( _really, scrunchies?_ ), or any other type of bathing accessory had been on his mind. Not when faced with all of the changes in technology he'd missed and how much coffee he could actually get his hands on and pack within his personal storage container (hile still leaving room for other essentials like Civ IV, bootlegs of the Sin City movie, Batman Begins, Boa vs. Python, and Episode III( which sucked in so many ways that not even the on-screen time of Ewan McGregor could save).

But then John -- no, Sheppard -- the Maj -- Lieutenant Colonel -- fuck it!, _John,_ had ended up dragging Rodney to a Super Target store (apparently so much better than the Greatland Targets, although if Rodney was going to go food shopping, it wasn't where he could also buy underwear). It had been at Elizabeth's insistence, with instructions to pick out a vanfull of modern conveniences for the expedition members who'd have to wait for the next (ten) opportunities to rotate back to Earth for a vacation or reassignment. When Rodney had protested that his scientists could by their own damn deodorant and flipflops (since even the final group of ten -- assuming a ten person rotation every trip that took a minimum of 40 days to make the turnaround -- would be Earthside in less than a year and a half), Elizabeth had pointed out how she wasn't going to allow them to rely on the Daedalus always being able to make the trip.

Not that Rodney hadn't recognized that (maybe not quite) drivel to be John's paranoia coming from Elizabeth's mouth so that the words sounded diplomatic instead of dire. Rodney might be the chief pessimist of expedition, but John was certainly the most paranoid optimist Rodney had ever met. Or maybe it wasn't so much paranoia as an unhealthy acceptance of Shit Happens, coupled with an extraordinary ability to persevere anyway (despite watching friends get shot down, totally undeserved black marks on his record, having to kill his commanding officer and pretty much turning the lights on fifty years too early to the all-you-can-eat Pegasus Galaxy buffet, as well as seeing new friends die -- or go crazy -- and undertaking a new suicide mission practically every month or so!).

When Rodney had then further protested that his time on Earth would be better spent selecting the new scientists that would be accompanying them back (since if he left their selection up to Elizabeth and the SGC, he no doubt find himself saddled with Daniel Fucking Jackson, or someone just like him, when what Rodney really needed were taller, more English-as-a-first-language Zelenkas), Elizabeth had been quick to remind him that he was the one who'd asked yesterday for an excuse to escape from the SGC for a few hours.

Of course he had. It was obvious after spending all of five minutes with the SGC's Golden Child (and the mother of his children one day), the oh-I'm-so- perfect Samantha Carter, along with the brain-damaged hacks she had working with her, that the scientists here had been unable to understand a tenth of the research data Rodney had managed to squeeze into his miraculous databurst when he'd figured out how to restore contact between the two galaxies. Frankly, he hadn't been at all interested in being put on spoon-feeding detail -- even if it was with Carter. And so maybe he'd mentioned that watching paint dry would be a better use of his time. Or watching how many of the visiting military and Pentagon higher ups twitched when they got a glimpse of John's decidedly non-regulation hair.

Not that he didn't and hadn't stole his own glimpses now, as much out of jealousy as arousal. If they'd run out of soap and lube within a few months on Atlantis, there probably wasn't any hair gel anymore either. Meaning Sheppard's hair did that all on its own.

But how an off-handed comment about noticing John's hair had led Rodney to having to endure watching as John made absolutely pornographic faces over cereal with crunchy marshmallows and a new Tiger Wood golf -- _golf?!!_ \-- video game (when they both could have been exalting over World of Warcraft, Halo 2 or even Half Life 2), Rodney hadn't yet figured out. He decided that Elizabeth somehow _knew_. Which was ridiculous, other than her parting words being for Rodney to remember his inclusion on this trip was a privilege since he was absolutely invaluable to Atlantis ( _why did they only admit that when they wanted to mock him for the truth?_ ), and so obviously the banishment had been some sort of punishment even if she called it taking responsibility over his minions…

Okay, she'd actually called them his team or fellow scientists and maybe even _peers_ , which had had him preparing to deliver a very detailed treatise on just how wrong she was since they lived in a reality that didn't have someone who could match his intellect now in _two_ galaxies, except John had then pulled him away mid breath and dangled the keys to the ridiculously sporty and fast Dodge Viper in front of his face, that apparently belonged to the little mousy guy who announced chevron positions.

Rodney had only taken the keys in self defense. He might concede that taking five hours, a food break and one gas stop to find a store that was supposed to be only twenty minutes away from Cheyenne Mountain had been …excessive. But it had been only logical to assume that Sheppard was as inept at following hand written directions and a map as he was in remembering the path he'd walked just minutes before! Not to mention that Rodney hadn't been about to cut short something that was finally, a full week into their stay, putting a real smile on John's face, as well as allowing John to relax and for a short time not be the guy who'd only supposed to have only been Atlantis' genetic light switch and so had to be sleeping with Elizabeth for her to have given him the commanding slot. Or the guy who had killed his CO (even though every single one of those Marines and Air Force motherfuckers would have done the same goddamn thing assuming they hadn't shitted themselves or fainted instead!).

It wasn't until they were leaving the aisle containing toothbrushes ( _all John's idea to get Kavanagh a "My Little Pony" one, not his!_ ), that Rodney had remembered the bath thingy -- and the rest of the images and his feelings from that first time of camping and sharing a tent with John. Subsequent repetitions hadn't led it to ever being easier for Rodney, not that he'd ever admitted such, especially after he'd become Teyla's guard and bath buddy within the team, as Ford _had_ admitted he was having trouble dealing with all of the additional flesh he was being exposed to beyond Teyla's quite delightful and already delightfully tight and skimpy native costumes. Knowing that Teyla could (and no doubt would) kick his ass if he made an inappropriate gesture, look or comment was enough of an incentive for Rodney to avoid the temptation Ford (and probably John) couldn’t resist, even though she could kick their assess too.

Or maybe Rodney hadn't been so worried about being thrashed for watching and maybe wanting Teyla, as for what might happen should he be discovered watching and _definitely_ wanting John. .

Fortunately, even being forced to shop with Maj -- Colonel Unattainable was better than thinking about what might be happening to Teyla and the rest of the expedition with him and John still here on Earth. And it had definitely been more entertaining and certainly distracting from thinking any more about poor Ford. Especially when John had decided the Atlantean women would appreciate underwear that hadn't been manufactured for the US military.

Though why John expected that Rodney knew all of their sizes…

Okay, he did, but only in the same way Rodney also knew every other esoteric formula for calculating the size and mass of matter. It was just one of the ways his brain was wired and had nothing to do with that particular shape occurring on a woman (or a man!). Rodney could also make the same estimations for cats or wildebeest -- or puddle jumpers!

If he happened to know that John could be wearing snug 34s (yet generally chose baggy, striped! Size 36 boxers as his alternative to the military's sandpaper quality underclothes), it wasn't because Rodney had actually gone through John's laundry or anything -- The actual size computation had been necessary for those costumes they'd been required to change into on M9F-422, and _every_ one had inadvertently been given a glimpse of the stripes more than once since John's BDUs didn't fit any better than what he wore under them.

The two of them had then picked out other gifts for women, stuff for the guys and several more carts full of things to be shared by all and sundry, including the Athosians. Neither of them had used this opportunity to do much personal shopping, but if Rodney had thrown in a couple of extra bath scrunchy thingies, and maybe he grabbed an extra package of size 34 tighty whities just in case, it wasn't as if anyone (John) was going to notice amidst all of their other scavenging.

And if Rodney decided he needed to try one of the bath thingies now, back in the comfort of his own apartment (leased this last year by the government since Rodney hadn't been about to give up all of his possessions just because he hadn't had time to transfer his research notes and historical collections to disc the first time, nor would he allow them to store his things to get all mold and mildewy -- or eaten by termites), it was only to make sure the dust and allergen free environment he'd come home to, (not to mention the new carpet, new paint _and_ a more extensive dvd and cd collection than he'd bothered to gather on his own) was worth the weirdness of knowing the SGC had let strangers sleep in his guest bedroom and use this bathroom along with all the stuff in his kitchen while he was away. And to make sure the bath-thingy was worth taking up even its little bit of space in his crate. After all, he could fit maybe 45 more flash drives in just the space of one of them…

It didn't take Rodney long to figure out that John didn't use a bath scrunchy because of the profusion of bubbles.

_Okay, the bubbles were undoubtedly a part of it._

Rodney had assumed the nylon would be too rough. But the bubbles softened the mesh just enough to eliminate any sort of drag, yet leave it just scratchy enough to arouse a whole different set of nerve endings across his nipples. Both they -- and his cock -- rose and tightened to immediate attention. Considering that pleasant surprise, Rodney braved trying it directly on cock. He couldn't quite flatten the middle enough to offset the knot and center the whole of it in his palm, but taking the time to unravel what made it scrunchy was suddenly so not in the picture after the first good swipe. Even with the bunching, he could fist the mesh nearly all the way around, although this quickly attenuated the thingy's ability to produce bubbles, which would in turn undoubtedly provoke the roughness he'd initially feared.

Just using the edges of the mesh to stimulate smaller patches of skin was allowing him to work himself up and then prolong teetering on the edge of an orgasm. He usually had difficulty doing this to himself as it was too much like tickling himself (it still felt good, but his brain knew what was going to happen and so somehow the whole thing ended up diminished -- and inadvertently rushed.)

Now, if someone else was using it on him --

He'd purposely been trying not to think of John while doing this -- especially not thinking about John conducting his own experiments to have discovered this amazing little tool -- except in the abstract of John being the catalyst to Rodney's own research. But the man who was Atlantis' military commander and Rodney's team leader and, fuck it, his best damn friend outside of Carson, had already become one of the featured subjects of Rodney's masturbatory fantasies (maybe now even more often than Sam). Pretty much from the moment John had sat down in the goddamn chair and said: _Did I do that?_ And after a year of all sorts of denials, this was obviously one more thing Rodney needed to indulge in which here back on Earth.

While Rodney didn't actually believe that Atlantis was sentient and telepathic (as some of the squishy scientists were anthropomorphizing), he could admit to fantasizing once or twice as to what it would be like if she was. No doubt she would have trapped Rodney somewhere in the bowels of her unexplored sections never to be found until too late for having such indecent thoughts about her favorite son (not that everyone else wasn't having them too). Yet what he liked to imagine was her trapping Rodney _and_ John, because she knew both their minds because of their shared ATA gene, and wanted to help them find happiness. They'd be caught on one of the levels down below the water line, heating system malfunctioning so that they'd be forced to tuck against one another and share their body heat while Zelenka took hours to figured out how to rescue them.

Or both of them stuck in one of the transporters with the air conditioning on the fritz and their clothing needing to be removed to stave off dehydration heat exhaustion. Stuck but still with plenty of air circulation, except it would also be heady with the musky tang of a sweating John Sheppard …

Never a hint of an unwarranted spark of electricity however, in a pique of jealousy, nor a push of the two of them alone together in some Ancient form of matchmaking. Not even for Atlantis' prodigal, and sometimes Rodney wished he couldn't use this fact as proof of Atlantis' non-sentience. It would be damn nice to shut-up the idiots in Anthropology, Archaeology and three quarters of the rest of Atlantis' -- and Pegasus' -- population, all of whom somehow decided they could make claims on John's time and/or body.) Then it would be no more Doctor Leslie 'Tits' Tischman every time John simply smiled and thanked her for darning a sock or mending the new tear courtesy of yet another hostile native population.

No Master Sergeant Fuckwad Bates, because it was so damn obvious what the source of _that_ tension had been -- and Rodney had to pause and wonder if John has had a chance to check on Bates yet, on whether Bates would ever be able to return, or if the sergeant was doomed to be another of the walking wounded lost because of the Wraith (like Ford -- like Everett).

And no Ascendant Bitch Chaya, hiding what she really was, what she could do to help the expedition by sharing even her most basic understanding of Atlantis. The Ancient who instead just helped herself to a little nookie, as if sharing a few extra alleles with John was a big deal.

Thanks to Carson's gene therapy, Rodney shared the _exact_ extra alleles. But neither that, his genius, nor the countless times he'd saved them seemed to matter as long as Rodney remained male. Not that John would fuck him even then if Rodney somehow became a woman -- something absolutely not off the table given the inexplicable devices they'd already run up against that the Ancient's had left behind.

Being female for a few hours might be interesting, but as Rodney rubbed the bath-thingy around his balls, he was utterly appreciative that he was male, even if the only John Sheppard he could be with like this was in his mind. It was so easy to imagine John doing these same things -- maybe even right now back in his hotel (which Rodney had insisted John book instead of spending another night inside the Mountain like John was Teal'c or something).

While Rodney might not be as adventurous or flexible as his dream Sheppard, neither was he suicidal _or_ masochistic. If he was going to continue with his experiments (and, yeah, there was another place he could just imagine how good the roughness would feel, but only if he didn't blow things now, so to speak), it would probably be better if he wasn't standing and chancing giving himself a hernia -- or collapse and give himself a concussion or worse.

Working eighteen hour days on average barely left time for eating, sleeping and the mandatory P Fucking T, much less for masturbating or actual sex. Even when Rodney could ( _needed_ to) make the time, a hand and spit -- or llama soap -- didn't do it for him and lotion, goddamn it, had been on the confiscated and prescribed list, right alongside lube. So even if he'd thought to bring along sex toys...

He supposed General O'Neill might have gotten a kick out of okaying one of Rodney's dildos, he had a perverse enough sense of humor and probably would have in fact pointed it out to Elizabeth just to make _her_ blush. Sumner, conversely, would no doubt have chewed Rodney's ass so fast -- and not in the good way. It was likely he could bring any manner of sex toys with him this time around; his crate was maybe being screened for drugs but probably little else.

Would it be worth the risk, when he'd probably not have any more time for such pursuits now that they had a ZedPM to activate countless new systems?

A couple of these scrunchies though -- Jesus Fuck! It might not be as good across his hole as a tongue, but it was so fucking much closer than anything else he'd tried --

And maybe one of Teyla's bantos sticks, not that he could ever tell her why he wanted one and she'd only expect him to work out with them (and how would he even be able to _watch_ her and John practice fighting with them if he did actually try the end of one up his ass?)…

Of course, there was also that little vibrating piece of Ancient teach that hadn't yet blown up or actually proven useful for anything other than exactly what it appeared to be --

Thoughts of using these things on himself turned quickly into picturing using them on John. Rodney might not be artistic (and that was still under dispute no matter what his former piano teacher or Sam might have said once -- or twice), but he'd always had a hell of an imagination. And after having seen so many of John's expressions and movements --so much of his amazingly gorgeous body even if too much of it had been covered in blood (too many times) -- Rodney now had no trouble visualizing a willing John Sheppard in full HD Mind's Eye Vision.

Willing -- eager even -- with his wrists crossed (one covered in that fucking black wristband) and raised above his head, his ankles spread and tied to Rodney's bed and oh, god!, also still wearing his dog tags and nothing else! Rodney would be pushing one end of a hand-polished bantos stick in and out of John's ass with one hand, while he used the scrunchy bath-thingy in his other to just feather and tease across the head and leaking slit of John's cock as the little Ancient vibrator nestled itself down against John's balls. John would trembled and strained and cursed (better than John's Marines), and then start begging for Rodney to --

It was a good thing Rodney had chosen to sit on the ledge in the back of his shower; when he'd recovered enough to figure out where he was ( _who he was_ ), and what he'd been doing, he'd had less than two feet to slide down before finding the shower floor and hadn't managed to crack his head, although his face was mushed up against the glass door and the water was turning pretty damn cold and the side that was now exposed. The cold was maybe okay though, since the instant replay of recovered memories he had going on in his head was actually causing his cock to try and get interested again despite how tender and flaccid it was.

Once he got his legs back under him, Rodney rinsed off the bath-thingy (and his stomach and chest and one shoulder), then reached for the cell phone he'd placed up on one of the little window sills above the water's reach before he'd started (the cell phone maybe the thing he actually missed the most while in Atlantis, because it was so much more efficient to just call himself and leave a message on his voice mail than try to find a piece of clean paper and a stupid working pen when he had an epiphany while he was sleeping or eating -- or showering). It was time to do what he did best: figuring out how to turn theoretical imaginings into irrefutable reality.

"So, it's obvious about Majors, but what about Lieutenant Colonels? Can they let their friends take them out to dinner, John?"

\-- finis --


End file.
